Ruins
by Well I Don't Mind
Summary: Molly Hooper has had a lovely day as Sherlock's assistant, but she never imagined it would end like this. One-shot. Sherlock Season 3 spoilers.


**A/N:** This is basically how I wanted this particular scene from _The Empty Hearse_ to play out, even though we all know it didn't! Moffat and Gatiss, you'd better be careful with our fragile shipper hearts!

Naturally**, BBC Sherlock Season 3 spoilers!**

Enjoy!

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**RUINS**

"…I'm gonna need maps, lots of maps. Older maps, all the maps." His rambling is so organised, it edges on becoming chaotic, and though Molly feels slightly intimidated by the sudden demand, by his way of almost ignoring her until her presence becomes necessary, she still admires his ability to think and plot and understand details no one else would ever think of.

"Right." She almost stumbles on her words, but keeps herself steady in the end. She is surprised of how steady she's been able to keep herself during the day and how little she's been stumbling on her words whenever speaking with Sherlock.

"Fancy some chips?"

"What?" Now, she's truly taken off guard. As so many times today, she is so surprised by his friendliness, she doesn't really notice his smell as he passes her in the staircase, the smell of his cologne mingled with coffee, the smell that usually makes her knees shake. She hurries after him, but his long legs are several strides ahead of her.

"I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marleybone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions."

"Did you get him off a murder charge?" She snickers at her own wit—dear Lord, where does this bravery come from?

"No. I helped him put up some shelves." Though she can't see him, she can hear the words escaping from a smirking mouth.

She likes it, the banter, the easiness that flows between them now. Perhaps two years apart has done them both some good? Or, perhaps this is just Sherlock Holmes, being more cunning than ever? How could she ever know? "Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"What was today about?"

He turns, his face rather still, but there is something peculiar in his eyes. "Saying thank you."

"For what?" She pulls her brows together as she slowly walks down the stairs.

"For everything you did for me."

"It's okay. It's my pleasure." She walks past him.

"No." His purr makes her stop and turn, a bit shocked and her heart beating slightly faster, his eyes slightly narrowed as he looks at her. "I mean it."

She takes a small, ragged breath. "I don't mean 'pleasure', I mean I didn't mind. I wanted to—"

"Moriarty slipped up, he made a mistake." He takes a step closer. "Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me, was the one person who mattered the most. You made it all possible." He inhales heavily. "But you can't do this again, can you?"

She should have known. He has noticed—of course he has, he's Sherlock bloody Holmes. She smiles wistfully. "I've had a lovely day. I'd love to, it's just, um…" She can't continue. She can't explain to him why she can't spend more time with him. She can't explain to him that if she continues doing this, 'solving crimes' with him, she'll be miserable and everything she has been able to build for the last two years will be ruined. Her heart is racing, though slowly dying, as she glances at the ring on her finger. Why does this have to happen now? Why didn't this happen before he went away, before she decided to just stop wanting him, before she found Tom?

"And congratulations, by the way." There's a smile hiding in his voice, and he sounds genuinely happy for her.

She smiles and tries to make it as genuine as possible. "He's not from work." She slowly looks up at him and meets his smiling face. "We met through friends, old-fashioned way. He's nice, we—he's got a dog, we, we go to the pub on weekends and we—I've met his mom and dad and… his friends and all his family—I've no idea why I'm… telling you any of this—"

"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it." His baritone voice sends vibrations through her whole body, and even though she knows it's probably all fantasies—and not very proper for her to think about, given her current situation—she thinks she hears something seemingly like resentment and jealousy in his voice. Perhaps he does wish her to be happy, but large parts of her wish him to want her to be happy with _him_. Lord knows that's what _she_ wants, if only that was possible. "After all," he continues, "not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths."

"No?"

"No." He smiles as he takes another step closer.

Molly is uncertain of what he is going to do, and breaths shallowly. He looks at her, intensely, for a while, and she feels her cheeks colouring. It's been so long—so long!—she's been wishing him to look at her that way, and now he does. Whether or not there're feelings in there, she doesn't know, but he looks at her in a way he's never looked at her before, and when he leans forwards, probably to innocently kiss her cheek, she can't hold back as she splutters, "kiss me."

He stops mid motion, his face hovering above hers. "I was just—"

"For real, I mean…" She can't understand what has gotten into her, but this is her last chance. Her very last chance. Perhaps it won't do her any good, perhaps it will ruin her, but there is a chance that this might be the closure she needs, the ending to this particular chapter of her life. His greenish blue eyes pierce through hers, incomprehensibly seeking some explanation, trying to deduce her, but are left in the dark. He doesn't understand. She quickly looks away. "It's just—I'm not—never mind."

"Molly—"

"No, it's okay. It's—I'm just being silly." She turns to walk away, but he catches her arm. With a small gasp, she turns back. His gaze is once again intense, and almost a bit mad, but then it softens, and a gentle smile spreads across his lips. He understands. Carefully yet determinedly, he places his big hands on either side of her head, stretching from her jaw to the back of her head. Just by his touch, she almost falls limb in his arms as he slightly angles her head before leaning down and catching her upper lip between his. There's a jolt of electricity running through her, and she gives a soft, involuntary moan against his lips, and he presses himself closer. He tastes of peppermint and coffee. Desperately wishing it's not all in her head, all a fantasy, Molly reaches for his face, feels his strong jaw under her fingertips, slowly driving her fingers through his dark curls.

It feels real, but yet so unrealistic.

He moves his lips, ever so slightly, as to claim another kiss. It's deeper, firmer, and edging on being slightly demanding, before he gently pulls away, leaving her to want more. His gaze is warm, and he keeps his grip around her head. Her eyes are probably the size of a pair of golf balls, and she must look ridiculous as he gives her a quick smile. She feels his right thumb caressing her left temple. "I've done you much wrong, Molly Hooper."

"No," she says breathlessly and rapidly shakes her head in small, frantic movements, still entrapped in his grip. "No."

"Yes, I have," he says determinedly as he closes his eyes and angles his head away from her, all without letting her go. "You know I have and it's no point in trying to deny it. I've always gone about as I do without any regards of the opinions or feelings of other people." He flings his eyes open, as if he's figured something out. "You've never been put off by it, though… you've…" He furrows his brows. "You've always been a good friend to me." He slowly settles his gaze on her. She stands unmoved, still looking like a deer in headlights, breathing shallowly. "Despite my rudeness, my arrogance—my ignorance—you've always been there. You made the impossible possible, for me."

She let out a heavy sigh as she placed a hand atop one of his, before gently moving his hand away from her head, and his other one soon follows, and the coldness sends a chill along her body. "Of course I did." She gives him a small, bittersweet giggle. "You're Sherlock." She doesn't add the 'Holmes', because to her, he's the person, not the name.

They take a moment to just look at each other, and though there must be a thousand thoughts running through his head, Molly only sees herself in his eyes, her own, gawking face staring back stupidly, and for a second she wonders why she's still there, so close to such a man, to such a genius. She's more baffled about the fact that he's still there, however. He is not in love with her—Sherlock Holmes can't be in love, because his greater logic prevents him from it—and she's not as important to him as John is, nor as Mrs Hudson is, nor as Greg is… no matter what he says. She knows all this, and she has known this all along. So what are they doing?

He clears his throat after a while, and straightens as his hands find each other behind his back. He gives a slight nod. "And, who's the lucky fellow?"

"His name's Tom," Molly says. "You'd like him."

Sherlock smiles. "No. I don't think I would." His gaze lingers on her for a second before he turns and walks out the door.

Molly takes a heavy breath when he's out, to recuperate. Was it the closure she had been looking for? She doesn't know. She's still just as conflicted as before. Only difference is that she's now gotten a small taste of what she'll miss. Her only consolation is the fact that he will never feel the same for her, and with that revelation, she straightens and follows him out the door. She watches him stride away down the street, his black coat swirling around his legs in the lightly falling snow, and she turns to walk the other way, heartbroken but still somewhat strengthened, a hint of peppermint still lingering on her lips.

Perhaps it is a good thing she isn't seeing the deep frown on his face, his tightened jaw and the frightfully human heartache shimmering in his catlike eyes. She would be in ruins if she did.


End file.
